


if I am the fool

by RatsuyaSuou



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro-centric, Angst, Cafe Leblanc (Persona 5), Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, During Canon, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Regret, Sad Ending, bitter and I ain't talking about the coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatsuyaSuou/pseuds/RatsuyaSuou
Summary: Sakura’s coffee, permissible only in Akira’s absence, was far lesser. Akechi’s first instinct told him to wait, confident that Akira would be around soon- returning as he always did from some outing with his friends, or a school trip- but his brain unhelpfully reminded him that he had witnessed the man’s cranial fluid dripping onto the prison floor only a few days earlier.A pity. Akechi would miss his coffee.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	if I am the fool

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "no more what ifs". the violence/character death are just canon (Akira's fake murder)

LeBlanc had never felt so empty.

Akechi was not foreign to the sensation, of course, returning to a spotless, catalogue-ready apartment each night, but somehow, the peace he coveted ill-fitted LeBlanc. It was an unbearable sort of empty, a silence which drowned Akechi alive, slipping into his lungs and choking out his breath.

How odd, when he’d come here to gloat.

Yes, Akechi found himself responsible for the absence of LeBlanc’s best employee. Sakura might take issue with that statement, but it was his honest review. Akira’s coffee always had a special kick to it- though whether it was the boy’s own recipe, or the pleasure of knowing that the esteemed leader of the Phantom Thieves was serving him, Akechi didn’t know.

It was special, however, to stare past the thicket of jet-black curls, through misty eyeglasses to the shining eyes beneath. Akira’s eyes were usually too well-hidden to be seen with a simple glance, and only when he was preoccupied with brewing could Akechi forget his pretenses of politeness and fully drink him in. 

Pardon the pun.

A clink turned Akechi’s chin up from his reverie, divulging a warm cup only a breath away from his hands. Sakura didn’t respond to Akechi’s quiet words of thanks. 

It was no matter. Akechi didn’t mean them anyways. 

Sakura’s coffee, permissible only in Akira’s absence, was far lesser. Akechi’s first instinct told him to wait, confident that Akira would be around soon- returning as he always did from some outing with his friends, or a school trip- but his brain unhelpfully reminded him that he had witnessed the man’s cranial fluid dripping onto the prison floor only a few days earlier. 

A pity. Akechi would miss his coffee. 

“Where is Kurosu-kun?” Akechi asked cordially, stirring his cup. 

Sakura always answered the same, forced out through gritted teeth. “Visiting family.”

Akechi wondered if he believed this, or if law enforcement told him that he shouldn’t expect to see his adopted son again. 

Sakura seemed to have gotten smarter, because he added “I don’t know when he’s coming back.” 

Akechi pursed his lips, looking down at his mug. That was usually his follow-up question.

As though a dead man would walk through that door, bookbag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, blinking in owlish surprise to see Akechi in his home. He was always surprised, no matter how many times Akechi came. As though he knew that Akechi was never meant to exist. An error on a cosmic level, born to unwilling parents in a dying world. 

And here Akechi sat, on a day where Akira would never come, engaging Sakura in theater he was hardly even aware he had been cast in, a perfect facsimile of mundane life. How flattering it must be, standing in spitting distance of their story’s only remaining lead, while Akechi’s partner laid rotting in an unmarked grave.

Akechi winced. He had begun a conscious effort to avoid his more brutal thoughts after being so embarrassingly overwhelmed the first night. Something in that accursed room had turned him fourteen again, it seemed, stumbling away from the scene with petty concerns like guilt and regret. 

Shido had given him a lot of grief over being spotted vomiting into a trashcan in his apartment’s lobby, whining about just how difficult it was to suppress tabloid articles speculating on alcoholism. Stifling the obvious accusations of hypocrisy was another one of god’s little tests, as far as Akechi was concerned, a fun follow-up to attempting not to faint during the elevator ride.

Pitiful. Akira’s body really wasn’t that much more horrific than his mother’s had been. 

Akechi stirred his drink once more, a sigh hanging at his lips, but not quite falling. He wasn’t foolish enough to waste precious time on tears any longer. Nobody had bothered with a funeral for either Akira or his mother, so why should Akechi mourn? 

And perhaps the world was right. Perhaps Akechi should surrender entirely to public will. Parroting the concerns of the masses was the secret to love, after all, and Akechi was the vessel through which people heard their own thoughts- from more beautiful lips, and more intelligently phrased, yet still authentic. The public may be foolish to need him, but it was difficult to begrudge when Akechi satisfied them so well. 

And foolish, Akechi concluded with the rim at his lips, to believe himself lonely while his cellphone buzzed with notifications from every teenaged girl in Japan- compliments on his makeup and hair, jealousy at the acumen of his deductions, condolences for the trauma of finding a dead body.

Hah. 

It still laid silenced at the bottom of his briefcase. 

The disparity seemed odd, however. Akechi was a man of logic, and he presumed that there had to be a reason why he was surrounded by more affection than he could process, and LeBlanc stood still as- well a grave, if he may be on the nose. Surely this was some grand orchestration of fate, divine favor that had descended upon him rather than Akira, a force beyond comprehension declaring Akechi as its sole champion. 

The masses had spoken. They favored Akechi, his world where LeBlanc and the Phantom Thieves crumbled, where their legacy evaporated like whispers in the wind.

Who was Akechi to argue, if this was what people willed? Perhaps he should cement his victory in some way. Akechi surely had enough savings to purchase LeBlanc- though he would rather wait until it became more dilapidated, abandoned by its usual patrons, a sad ghost of what it once was. That would be the ideal time to swoop in, a well-groomed, smiling businessman- and make headlines for his financial sense!- closing for a mere fraction of its worth. 

Then Akechi would destroy it. Maybe an accident, an unexplained explosion or fire, or the last pathetic cry from a failed business, like the government conveniently finding that a cat had walked on every surface in the shop, and mandating it be closed. 

Akechi did love his spectacle, though. Perhaps he would pilot his own bulldozer, and savor every crunch of wood beneath the iron. So many possibilities! 

Akechi drummed his fingers along the tragically unsplintered table. This place would be better off obliterated, wiped from Yongen-Jaya, as explosively as the bullet that had torn through Akira’s skull, as caustically as his fingers had ripped each remaining photo of his mother to shreds. Anchors only hindered a ship, after all. It was better not to leave these matters undone.

And then on T.V, he could smile and tell the hosts exactly how bad the coffee was.

One day, he resolved, LeBlanc would be gone. From the rickety shelves of spices and brews, to the dim lighting of the tacky rainbow ceiling lights, and Akira’s jacket draped askew over the stair railing-

Akechi’s breath caught.

That hadn’t been there the last time he visited. 

Akechi stood, weightless, like a man possessed, and sped towards the stairs before another thought could accost his mind. He ran the cloth through his fingers- real as it had been that fateful, terrible night, but clean, and carrying the scent of fresh laundry. 

His detective instincts cried that it seemed too recently washed for a man a week dead, and that no one would trouble themselves doing laundry for the sake of a corpse, but Akechi struggled to tear his thoughts away from the simple physicality of the black fabric. Was it really free from the slight discoloration of blood splatters, metallic and ugly? 

Akechi was imagining things, he decided. Of course Akira owned more than one school blazer. Of course it was at his home. 

Sakura had been promptly distracted by a phone call- someone he was addressing with a hand over the receiver. If Akechi cared more to ruin the man, maybe to drive down the worth of LeBlanc yet again, he might listen in, but for now, he was more grateful at the divided attention. 

If anyone cared enough to ask, he consoled himself as he crept up the cramped little staircase, he could always produce a warrant. 

Akira’s room was perfectly preserved, like the dollhouses of girls at elementary school that Akechi had been jealous of. Akechi could imagine puppeteering what remained of Akira around it like a little game, forcing him to mime studying, or dozing off with that little cat of his, who knew where it had gone.

When met with the sight of the deserted room, the pervasive feeling of emptiness returned in full force, like the flash of paparazzi cameras when Akechi least expected them. He froze in the gust of cold about, just as frigid the lockbox underground, with the same stink of antiseptic mixed with gun smoke. 

Akechi blinked. He was imagining that. 

Same as he was probably imagining the plant nestled in the corner of the room, healthy as if it had been watered just today. 

The soil underneath its leaves stained his gloves wet. Perhaps Sakura had taken to caring for it in vain. 

Same as the desk, filled with half-finished trinkets and without a speck of dust. And the glass of water, left half-finished beside an unmade bed. 

Akechi could scoff at the naivete in his own mind, the desperation of a child, or perhaps a lovelorn girl. These were clearly the last remnants of a man long gone, the untidy room of someone who hadn’t expected to die- who was too taken with himself to consider the possibility. To think- hope- anything else was not detective work, but rather ludicrous. 

Akechi’s boots thumped against the flimsy floor as he strode out, angered at the stupid thought that he might find something here. He hardly knew what he had been expecting- a secret note, perhaps, outlining the Phantom Thieves’ hitlist, or stash of stolen goods, or Akira himself, alive and hidden and ready to throw himself into Akechi’s arms. 

Akechi was too well possessed of his own faculties to lose his mind like this. 

And yet, he stopped on his way out, eyes locked on a glove dangled from a bookshelf. 

His glove.

Akechi reached out, unsteady, braced for it to shimmer transparent in the light, or disappear entirely. It was illogical to expect, yet the object felt so- ethereal.

Like Akira himself. Cocky, over the top, yet guarded. Secretive. 

Akechi never had cracked him.

Akechi ran his fingers over the leather. Akira had faulted on his promise to return it, it seemed. He never could keep up.

A pity, to be sure. It was always so sad, when the good died young. 

And yet… Akechi dropped the glove back onto the shelf, a desperate attempt at indifference. He could have sworn that Akira had kept it on his person that day. 

Perhaps he was misremembering, however uncharacteristic that seemed. Akechi pressed a hand against his forehead, dragging it down his face.

He would have to talk to his doctor about the sleeping pills. 

Akechi resolved to leave as quickly as possible, stepping lightly down the stairs and wrapping his fingers around the handle of his briefcase before he could be distracted again. Sakura and his phone call were mercifully absent, but Akechi’s cup had already been swept away from his usual spot, and the counter beneath cleaned. 

Akechi’s influence had been wiped from LeBlanc as effectively as Akira had from their world. 

Akechi surveyed the scene with a small smile. How cute it was, the small sign that he wasn’t welcome any longer. He supposed he couldn’t begrudge the man this last haven. 

The final obstacle before the door was a small, beaten-up package, which unfortunately caught Akechi’s eye- and the toe of his boot, which bumped against it as he attempted to turn the door handle. 

“Kurosu Akira,” the little sticker slapped atop the cardboard read, and Akechi chuckled to himself. Something else Akira could never have. 

Akechi lifted the package, tilting it slightly in his light grip, attempting to discern what might be inside- several small objects, by the feel of it. He found himself wondering, idly, what would happen to them, the legion of little things left in Akira’s wake. His entourage of hangers-ons, the stupid cat, the knickknacks and packages, every tiny puzzle piece in his mottled little life that had been dumped out of the box.

Akechi had never owned a puzzle. He supposed he had missed the childhood experience of breaking them apart, casting them onto the floor with puerile glee. 

He wondered, rotating the box in his hands, who would notice if the package… disappeared. Akechi had walked away from the holding cell empty-handed, after all. Perhaps he deserved a trophy of sorts. 

Like the glove he had given to Akira. Something to remember him by, the poor soul.

Akechi slipped a nail underneath the masking tape, eyes sliding idly over to the stamp nearby- Kurosu Akira, LeBlanc, Yogen-Jaya, ordered 11/22. 

11/22.

Two days after his death.

A misprint, Akechi thought, as his mouth turned dry, and he yanked his hand away as though he’d been burnt. 

The bell sounded out, and Akechi whipped around to see the door open. Sakura’s judgmental gaze descended upon him in a manner of seconds, cigarette still half alight between two fingers.

“I thought you left.” He said, gruff, as his frown lines deepened. Akechi refrained from commenting on the fact. There was no use telling a man his age to mind his wrinkles.

“Ah, not quite, Sakura-san!” Akechi tilted his head, smile bright. “I simply wished to take a look around.” 

Sakura’s eyes narrowed, and Akechi sensed his trepidation- he was weighing whether or not to press back, to ask why, or whether Akechi had the legal right to inspect his property. 

Akechi slipped on his most charming grin, attempting to sidestep for the door. 

“Closing time?” He asked, rhetorical, laughing politely at his own joke as he brought his briefcase in front of his body. “I suppose I will be on my way, then!” 

Sakura allowed him to pass, bringing the cigarette to his lips for another puff as Akechi pushed his way to the outdoors. He could still feel the older man’s watchful gaze, however, as he stepped into the tiny, worn down road.

It was enough for Akechi to look back. 

Sure enough, Sakura was staring, arms firmly crossed and mouth turned to a scowl. A trailing vine from the plants adorning their entrance had fallen out of place, brown and crumbling, nearly touching his shoulder. 

The sight made Akechi feel funny. He remembered Akira snipping away at the diseased growths during what felt like yesterday, tossing the dead leaves into a bag. Gifts from his father, he had said with a fond smile that made Akechi jealous in the moment. His father loved flowers, did Akechi know that? Akira did too, they reminded him of home, he said, as he cut away another unhealthy leaf.

As blood trickled from the hole in his head.

Akechi always did wonder why Akira put up with him for so long.

“Your plants are dying.” Akechi noted. 

Sakura blinked. “Yeah. They are.”

“It follows me, you know.” Akechi said. “Death.” 

He bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth, wondering why he had even entertained the thought of saying them, a sentiment both implicating and vulnerable. Akechi was grateful when Sakura elected not to respond either way, allowing him a quick escape into the night. 

He wouldn’t come to LeBlanc again.

**Author's Note:**

> Akira's lines at the end are an allusion to Jun, which is also why I spelled his last name "Kurosu" :)


End file.
